


Discoveries We Make

by LadyBrooke



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Escape from captivity, Family Drama, Forced Pregnancy, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incest, M/M, Mpreg, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23822461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBrooke/pseuds/LadyBrooke
Summary: Of all the things Fingolfin had expected to find in Morgoth’s dungeons following his capture, his half-brother had been near the bottom of the list.The rest, even when he discovered Morgoth intended to force his captives to have a child together, seemed positively normal in comparison.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Comments: 13
Kudos: 64
Collections: Unusual_Bearings_2020





	1. From This Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feanorsluckysock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feanorsluckysock/gifts).



> Canonical deaths that still occurred and play a role: Míriel, Finwë, Argon, Aredhel. 
> 
> Fëanor has issues, especially due to the first. Warnings for fear of Fingolfin dying due to Míriel’s death. 
> 
> See end note for further warnings regarding dubious consent, implied/referenced rape, and forced pregnancy.

Of all the things Fingolfin had expected to find in Morgoth’s dungeons following his capture, his half-brother had been near the bottom of the list. At first he had thought Fëanor to be a trick, until Fëanor had begun to speak regarding his feelings on Maedhros giving the crown to Fingolfin (while Fëanor could respect repaying Fingon, it would have been best if Maedhros had passed by Fingolfin, apparently) and why Fëanor had not yet escaped Morgoth’s trap. 

"He knows I will not leave without my Silmarils," Fëanor said after some time of rambling about how Sauron had evidently pretended to be Fëanor just long enough to fake Fëanor’s death.

Well, that was definitely Fëanor. A stubborn fool who did not realize the effects of his decisions. 

"Do you know how your sons mourn you?” Fingolfin demanded. 

Fëanor flinched, minutely enough that anyone not well-used to his mannerisms would have missed it.

Good, Fingolfin thought. His half-brother should have regrets after all they had suffered on his behalf. He could not bring himself to tell Fëanor of his mourning, even now, even when finally faced with such a relief and a torment at once.

“If I stay here I can reclaim the Silmarils and protect them,” Fëanor finally said. 

“They are tormented every day by the oath you had them swear and their feelings of failure at your death and their actions since that point. Such grand protection you have granted them, that even the oath you made will grant them no peace.” Fingolfin turned, tension giving rise to an urge to pace the small room they were kept in.

Even as he took in a pile of tools on the other side and wondered if Morgoth hoped to convince Fëanor to make gems for him or if Fëanor somehow had disguised his efforts from Morgoth, he felt Fëanor grab his arms and turn him around.

“Do not speak of the oath,” Fëanor said, red spots high on his cheeks as he snarled. Fingolfin could see that his half-brother was searching for a way to hurt him, until finally he found one and spoke again. “At least my children are all still alive.”

Fingolfin snapped, giving into the urge to punch his brother, just this once, hitting him in the face and shoving him onto the floor before pacing to the other side of the room.

Fëanor did not say anything more or come closer for the next few hours, though occasionally he cleared his throat as though to speak before falling silent.

In fact, it was later that evening before anything changed. The door swung back open, Sauron stepping forward, Orcs behind him in the hallway and a phial in his hand that he held up. “My Lord sends a potion for your continued good health, King Nolofinwë.”

“He will not drink any of your foul tricks, Sauron,” Fëanor snarled before Fingolfin could say anything.

“Such a defense of the half-brother who has left you with a blackened eye, Fëanáro.” Sauron’s lips curled upwards. “But I am afraid neither of you have a say in this matter, unless you wish to drink it yourself. He can drink it willingly or he can be dragged from the room and hung from the rafters of the throne rooms until such time as his thirst is such that he begs for it, as Maitimo begged for any drink on the side of the mountain.”

Fëanor’s eyes flashed. 

Fingolfin stepped forward at the sight, quickly taking the phial from Sauron. He did not wish to drink it, but there did not seem to be another choice unless he wished Fëanor to attempt to fight Sauron barehanded. 

He quickly uncapped it, bringing it to his lips and swallowing even as Fëanor lunged forward and caught him. 

“You fool,” Fëanor muttered. 

Fingolfin blinked. The light in the room seemed strange, darker than it had earlier. 

“Náro?” he said, feeling his mouth twist and refuse to say the whole name. Indeed, he could not bring himself to say anything else, even as Fëanor glanced down at him, anger and what he could barely believe was fear mixed on his face. There too was the black eye, which he could not help but regret now.

“As soon as you drank it, you collapsed screaming. I thought he had poisoned you.” Fëanor’s hands brushed downward, and Fingolfin winced as they touched his stomach. “Nolofinwë? Did that pain you?”

“No - no, it felt odd, yes, but as though you were touching an old wound.” 

That did not comfort Fëanor, who frowned. “Some poison of the internal organs, perhaps.”

“I do not feel as though I have been poisoned,” Fingolfin said. 

“Have you often been poisoned to know how it feels?” Fëanor asked, even as he shoved Fingolfin’s tunic upwards to examine the area better. 

“Nay, but I have seen those that have. This feels more like a healer’s potion, twisted to some strange end.” Fingolfin bit his lip as he spoke, trying to think as a dull pain began again. 

Fëanor’s frown deepened once more. “Stay still. I shall bring you water, and we shall see if you can swallow it.”

As though he could go anywhere outside of this room, Fingolfin thought but did not say. 

Fëanor returned quickly with a cup poured from a pitcher Fingolfin had not noticed. “How do you know that is not poisoned?”

“I placed my own enchantments on the cups and plates. It is not.” Fëanor held the cup to Fingolfin’s lips. 

He gave in and drank, slowly at first and then eagerly, until Fëanor pulled the cup away. 

“Do you feel sick?” Fëanor asked.

“No,” Fingolfin said. He meant to ask why Fëanor was being so considerate, but felt so tired he could not. 

“Sleep. I will wake you in a few hours to eat if the water does not make you worse.”

While Fingolfin never managed to ask his half-brother why, Fëanor avoiding all questions, it appeared over the next few days that the incident had changed their relationship. Even when Fingolfin knew Fëanor would previously have snapped and mocked him, his half-brother appeared to be make every effort not to, swallowing back his insults even as he continued to check on Fingolfin’s well-being.

“I am well. There is no discomfort or pain anymore.” Fingolfin glanced up, meeting Fëanor’s eyes before he could look away. 

“I do not understand why he would give you such a potion, and yet it has not killed you,” Fëanor said. 

That same question had kept Fingolfin up at night, trying to pretend he could not feel Fëanor tense beside him on the narrow mattress they shared, except on the nights when Fëanor abandoned the mattress and sat muttering at his desk until morning broke, doubtless soothing his mind with imaginary work, the same way he had once soothed himself by making real objects in Valinor. 

“I do not understand why you have tools if you do not make anything with them,” Fingolfin said instead of admitting such. “We all have questions we would like the answers to but do not receive.”

“They are my tools and I would no sooner forsake them than I would my arm, yet I will not make more treasures for Morgoth to take.” Fëanor rolled his eyes. “Your answer.”

Fingolfin blinked, surprised at the honesty. “I fear I do not have an answer for you, other than that Morgoth and Sauron likely did such for their own amusement.”

“We can only hope so,” Fëanor said. “And yet I fear this is only the beginning of their plan.”

As though summoned by Fëanor’s words, there was another strange occurrence that night. Runes appeared above the door, glowing red-orange and taunting them. While Fingolfin had never learned Valarin, he took his understanding from Fëanor’s mutterings.

“You are certain the runes stand for love? I would think that would be something outside of either Sauron or Morgoth’s specialty.” Fingolfin looked upwards at the runes again. Was it just his imagination, or did they appear to be on fire, one that reminded him of Fëanor? Before he could step closer and look, Fëanor interrupted him. 

“It is not love like you are thinking of,” he said. 

“What is it, in that case?” Fingolfin turned his head to look at his half-brother instead. 

“Sex.” Fëanor shook his head, looking at the rune. “But why that word?”

“Could it be an enchantment?” 

“Sauron would not need such, and even if he did, why would he write his enchantment upon the wall in blue letters?” Fëanor made to step closer, but Fingolfin grabbed his arm. 

“The runes are red-orange, not blue. Are you well?” Fingolfin asked. 

Fëanor looked between the runes and Fingolfin, before shaking his arm free and walking towards to the mattress. “It is nothing more than a taunt from them. I am going to bed, and I shall hope that when I wake the runes have disappeared.”

It was unlike Fëanor to abandon a search for answers so abruptly. Fingolfin felt uneasy, but sat on the mattress himself, suddenly feeling tired. “I think I shall join you.”

For a second, he almost thought Fëanor would stand and leave for some unknown reason, given how much he tensed as Fingolfin took his spot next to his half-brother. 

But then Fëanor closed his eyes, and ignoring his unease, Fingolfin did as well.

And then he woke, and he was burning, Fëanor’s body pressed against his, Fëanor’s cock pressed against his, and Fëanor kissing him desperately. 

Fingolfin met his lips, kissing him back for some time, even as he thought of how strange this was. “The runes?” he mumbled against Fëanor’s skin even as he moved his lips lower, sucking the skin on his half-brother’s neck until there would definitely be a mark lingering in the morning. 

“No, not alone. They are not-” Fëanor cut off, groaning as Fingolfin ran his hands down Fëanor’s back. “Not alone. They could not do such - it would take a stronger spell, and there would need to be feel- Eru, I must have you.”

Fingolfin tried to keep his focus, tried to remember what his brother had said before that, but it slipped from his mind as Fëanor returned his frantic movements. “Yes, please.”

“Such manners,” Fëanor said, one hand tangling in Fingolfin’s hair and pulling him close for a kiss again, the other frantically searching the floor next to the mattress until he finally remembered where he was. “I have nothing to use.”

Fingolfin thudded his head backwards against the mattress. “Use spit, or water, or whatever remains of supper you have secreted away on the table, I do not care.”

“It will hurt,” Fëanor said, even as he placed his fingers near Fingolfin’s mouth. 

“Again, I do not care.” Fingolfin did not give him a chance to continue the argument, taking Fëanor’s fingers into his mouth and sucking, drawing a gasp from his half-brother. 

When Fëanor finally withdrew his fingers from Fingolfin’s mouth, Fingolfin looked at the heavy cock resting against Fëanor’s stomach. “Can you kneel with your cock near my face as you prepare me?”

“Fuck,” Fëanor said again, cock twitching, even as he turned to do so. 

“That is the idea,” Fingolfin said, before he took it into his mouth, licking and sucking even as he felt Fëanor press two fingers into him and spread his own legs wider. 

It did not take long for them both to start moaning with pleasure, though whether it was the spell or the passion that ran in both their veins overwhelming them, neither would ever be able to say.

“I must have you now,” Fëanor panted. 

“Yes,” Fingolfin said as Fëanor turned. 

They did not speak again as Fëanor thrust into Fingolfin, again and again until they were both reduced only to moans. Then Fingolfin came, Fëanor following him. Fingolfin could feel the come filling him, as he once more met his half-brother in a kiss.

And then it was over, a strange sleepiness descending upon them both once more that did not break until morning.

“Are you well?” 

There was something disconcerting about waking to Fëanor’s face only a handspan from his own face, asking questions. It took Fingolfin a moment to even place why his half-brother was asking, but then he nodded. “Yes.”

Fëanor nodded, before standing from the mattress and beginning to pace, still undressed from the night before. Fingolfin did his best to not look, even as he felt ridiculous for such avoidance. “I apologize, Nolofinwë, I should have had better control of myself.”

“I do not think you could have controlled yourself after one of Sauron’s enchantments.” 

Fëanor’s jaw tensed, but he did not say anything further about the subject. “There is water still in the pitcher. Would you like some to clean yourself?”

Fingolfin only nodded.

It was only after they had both cleaned themselves and Fëanor had dressed and left the room, that Fingolfin remembered he had meant to ask more about Sauron’s enchantment. 

His half-brother proved quite skilled at avoiding those questions too, redirecting conversations and disappearing when he could not. Weeks passed, and Fingolfin was left with no more answers. He thought it was perhaps the stress of such that left him bent over a bucket in the corner of their room vomiting on successive mornings.

The upside of such was that Fëanor returned to spending more time near him, mumbling once more about poison even as he insisted Fingolfin spend more time in bed. 

The downside was that one day Sauron appeared in their rooms again, oddly pleased. 

“Are you enjoying your new condition? It was the argument about children you two had that gave my Lord the idea,” Sauron said. His eyes filled with glee. “After all, we are still owed a prince of the Noldor, given dear Maitimo’s rescue. And when one takes into account the strength present in both your lines….”

Sauron trailed off, even as Fingolfin recognized with sickening clarity what had happened. If the potion allowed for a child, then he must be pregnant, not ill from the stress of this situation. He placed an arm around Fëanor, who had not yet seemed to realize but who would surely fly into some sort of fit when he did. 

“Should your half-brother not be the one comforting you, King Nolofinwë?” Sauron’s voice was compelling, but not compelling enough.

“I need no comfort,” Fingolfin said, even as he felt Fëanor’s body tense as he looked between the bucket, Fingolfin’s stomach, and Sauron.

Sauron had noticed the same. “I see he has realized your condition. I shall leave you two to discuss the dear future arrival.”

He vanished out the door, even as Fëanor pulled away and sank onto the mattress, running his hands through his hair as though desperate to hold onto something. 

"I am sorry, Nolofinwë, if I had known - " 

"If you had known, there would still have been nothing you could do," Fingolfin said. He had hoped that Fëanor would react with anger, and not this strange mix of fear and grief that had always seemed to stalk his half-brother in the wake of any announcement of pregnancy.

"I could have taken the drink, at least. If that was what allowed the magic to work, I would be the one suffering such and not you.” Fëanor’s hands now tugged on his hair, desperate to tear something apart. 

Fingolfin sat down beside him, risking taking hold of Fëanor’s hands and pulling until his half-brother released his hair and let them fall weakly against the mattress.

“There is no use in debating the past, when neither of us knew what would come of the potion and spell,” Fingolfin said, not adding that having seen Míriel’s body and their father’s grief, and having heard his mother speak of how similar Míriel had been to Fëanor, he would not have allowed Fëanor to do such. “We can only plan for what we will do now.”

“If I had not taken you that night,” Fëanor began to argue again. 

“If you had not done so, do you think Morgoth would have been content at the potion’s waste? Nay. Doubtless he would have let any manner of his servants have their way with me,” Fingolfin snapped, feeling his patience fray. “Or perhaps he or Sauron themselves would have done so - Elwë had a child with one of the Maia, it is hardly impossible they would have thought to try such themselves.”

He stopped, taking a gasping breath. He had not even thought of such fates until that moment, but now that he had he could not escape such thoughts. 

“Calm, Nolofinwë, you must not panic.” Fëanor’s voice, moments before filled with his own panic, was now as commanding as it had been centuries earlier. 

Fingolfin pushed down his doubts at the sound. “Of course.”

“Leaving aside questions of guilt, we are still no closer to a plan.” Fëanor looked slightly more unsure at this. 

“We must escape,” Fingolfin said. He stopped at the look on his half-brother’s face. “Náro?”

“I cannot leave-” Fëanor did not finish his sentence. 

Fingolfin knew what he meant even without it. “The Silmarils,” he said, feeling sick again, this time not because of their child. That realization hurt even more. 

“Nolofinwë, I do not know how to leave. I did not let myself discover any such paths, in the fear I would leave before I regained them.” Fëanor leaned closer.

If Fingolfin had been feeling charitable, he would have thought Fëanor looked pleading. Instead he barely swallowed down his hurt and fear. “Then I suppose you should plan for how to raise a child in Morgoth’s keep. Most likely by yourself, I doubt the healers here shall care for my recovery from such unless they plan to use me again.” 

Fingolfin told himself he did not care about the stricken look on Fëanor’s face. He reclined backwards, turning on his side and facing the wall. Thankfully, from what he remembered of Anairë’s pregnancies, this was the side he was supposed to rest on. 

“Nolofinwë,” Fëanor began, but said no more. 

“I have less knowledge of this keep than you, Fëanáro. I cannot escape on my own, and unless you change your mind, we have nothing further to discuss. I intend to rest as much as I can.” Fingolfin was not surprised when Fëanor did not respond.

He was surprised when Fëanor took the spot on the mattress behind him, wrapping his arms loosely around Fingolfin, hands resting on his stomach. Fingolfin was even more surprised when he woke hours later, having not realized that he had even fallen asleep, to find Fëanor gone but a damp spot against the back of his tunic that could only have been caused by Fëanor crying. 

Things continued like that between them for some months, until finally Fingolfin had resigned himself to this fate even as he felt their child grow and dreamed of what fates there could have been. Fëanor was rarely to be seen when Fingolfin was awake, slipping from the room through means Fingolfin could not discover and doing what he did not know. But when he would wake slightly from sleep in the middle of the night, he could feel Fëanor pressed behind him. 

It was with that expectation that Fingolfin finally let himself slip into sleep, one night half a year after he first was taken prisoner. 

"Get up." 

Fingolfin awoke to the unlit room, Fëanor's face only a fraction of a centimeter from his. 

"What?" Not the most eloquent response he had ever given Fëanor, but the most befitting. "I need to sleep, Fëanor.”

"We must leave tonight, before it is too hard for you to run." Fëanor shoved a cloak around his half-brother's shoulders as he was lifted from the bed. "If I must carry you from these rooms, we are escaping from here now."

Fingolfin blinked as he was placed on his feet. "You said you would not leave without your Silmarils, and you would not discover a way out until you had them."

Fëanor paused in the midst of picking up his tools. "They will still be here when we return with an army. Our child may not, if they are born here."

Fëanor had chosen, and he had finally chosen the way Fingolfin had hoped but not dared to expect. Fingolfin closed his eyes briefly, whispering a silent thank you. 

"Do you know the way out?" Fingolfin then asked instead of pressing his half-brother for more. 

"Yes. From there, we will make our way to Nelyo's keep - I am sure you would rather make our way to Findekáno's, but I fear the journey would be too long." Fëanor placed the tools in a bag, handed Fingolfin a sword, and then grabbed his hand. "We must be silent on our way out, and there shall be no light until we leave this fortress behind."

"I understand," Fingolfin said. 

They were quiet, creeping through the halls. Once they were almost caught by an orc, but Fëanor pulled them into an alcove just in time. A second orc was killed by Fingolfin, body left in another alcove in the hopes it would be assumed killed by another orc. 

They reached the door, slipping through it silently. 

Fëanor looked back only once, as though he could see the Silmarils even through the stone walls. Then he sighed, and looked at the rising sun. 

"It is odd to see it from outside," he said.

Fingolfin laughed. "You will grow used to it." 

"I did not say it was a bad sight." Fëanor turned back towards the path, pulling Fingolfin behind him. 

They walked in silence again for some time, before Fingolfin pulled to a stop.

"Even if we manage to steal a horse, it is six days' journey to Himring by your own estimations, Nolofinwë, we cannot delay long," Fëanor said, even as he turned, worry on his face. 

Fingolfin only smiled. "It will only be a moment's delay."

He adjusted his hold on Fëanor's hand, lifted it beneath his tunic, and pressed it against his stomach. 

Fëanor gasped at the small flutter.

"Our child will be fine," Fingolfin said with more conviction and hope than he had had in several months. "And I had a thought about the horses."

"Yes?" Fëanor said, without moving his hand.

"Neither of us could contact anyone from Morgoth's keep due to his magic and the distance. But now that we are free, should we not try again?" 

Fëanor slowly grinned. 

In his office in Himring, Maedhros dropped a bottle of wine to the floor and rushed out the door, calling orders, as the voice of the one elf he had not expected to hear from again in this life filled his mind.


	2. To Himring

"And Nelyafinwë?"

"Yes, Atar?" Maedhros looked at where his father was seated outside Fingolfin's bedroom. Inside, the healer his father had insisted be brought as soon as they reached the keep examined Fingolfin. 

For what reason, both of the elves who had escaped refused to say.

"Send word to Findekáno that if he wants to see his father, he will have to come to Himring."

"Atar, I gave the crown to Fingolfin - you cannot order his son around anymore." Even as he spoke, Maedhros added another item to the list of things he would need to tell both Fingon and his brothers when he contacted them. 

'I do not wish to order Findekáno, I am merely concerned for Nolofinwë and the -"

Fëanor froze. 

If Maedhros had not been concerned about both of them, it would have been a hilarious image. As it was, he could not enjoy it. "The what, Atar?"

"The High-King bids you both enter his chambers," the healer interrupted before Fëanor could answer, pulling open the door and holding it open. 

Fëanor stood immediately. 

"All is well, Fëanáro, please do not interrogate her." Fingolfin's wry voice echoed down the corridor. "Allow her to leave, and Maedhros and you can enter."

Maedhros watched in mild shock as his father obeyed, quickly sidestepping the healer and entering the door, only to pause and gesture for Maedhros to follow. That was odd. Actually, it was more than odd, his father had barely managed to listen to Fingolfin in the best of times in Valinor. If Maedhros had not known his father’s mind so well, and if Maglor had not confirmed the identity as well, he would have feared a trick from Morgoth. 

Instead, he merely continued to worry about what had occurred in the depths of Morgoth’s keep. Neither appeared as outwardly injured as Maedhros had upon his own rescue, but that did not mean much when faced with Sauron’s delight in torture of the mind. 

Maedhros was lost enough in thoughts of such that he did not realize until he had shut the door behind him and was halfway to the bed that Fingolfin had remained in the bed, and his father now knelt beside it. Maedhros blinked at the sight of his uncle on the bed, tunic pushed up as his father ran his hands over the odd bump that rose from his uncle's previously well-toned stomach. 

The last time Maedhros had seen anything like that had been before the Ambarussa's birth.

"Maedhros?" Fingolfin interrupted Maedhros' muddled thoughts. 

"Yes, Uncle?" 

“I assume you wish an explanation,” Fingolfin said. Fëanor was silent beside him, an expression on his face Maedhros was all too familiar with from each of his younger brother’s births and his father’s repeated explanations that he loved all of his children equally. Each of his children had sat through those explanations with varying degrees of patience, some of them only due to their knowledge it was their father’s fears driving him to speak so. 

Even if Maedhros was certain of what had occurred, however, the how and why remained baffling. 

“Yes, Uncle,” he said at last. “We feared you dead, even Turgon has contacted Fingon due to it, and now I find you in my keep after escaping Morgoth, and if I do not mistake the situation, somehow pregnant with my father’s child. Considering Atar supposedly died centuries ago, I am quite curious as to how this has occurred.”

“You are right in your suspicions,” Fingolfin said. “I will leave your father to explain his captivity, save to say that Sauron pretended to be him long enough to trick you all with a burning body.”

Maedhros barely kept from shuddering at the reminder of that day. Fëanor reached out a hand, pulling him closer. “It will be well, Nelyo.”

Fingolfin nodded, and then cleared his throat. “When I challenged Morgoth, he captured me and took me to his keep, throwing me in room with Fëanor.”

“Whereupon he decided to drink the potion Sauron brought,” Fëanor interjected. 

“One would think you were unhappy with the result, given how often you remind me of such,” Fingolfin said. “And I was not the one who decided to simply go to bed when mysterious runes started glowing upon the wall.”

“I am not unhappy with the results, only with the possibilities of worse happening if it had been otherwise.” Fëanor’s voice rose. 

Maedhros felt a headache developing, even as he noted this argument seemed less violent than those between them in the past. If anything, it reminded him more of the arguments Finwë and Indis had once had, even if he suspected his father and uncle would not have spoken of such to each other. With that thought, he stood before hugging his father. 

“Nelyo?” Fëanor broke off his argument to look at his son. 

“I understand enough of the situation now, I believe. I shall send word to Fingon and my brothers to come here, and tell Maglor you will speak to him as soon as you are free,” Maedhros said. “I must go see to my duties, but I will have a tray sent up with food and drink.”

As though they had only been waiting for an excuse to come, or more likely, flying like the wind in reaction to Maedhros’ refusal to tell them exactly what had happened, other than a mention of Fëanor and Fingolfin’s continued survival, all five of Fëanor’s other sons and Fingon arrived at Himring within the month. 

If they were surprised at their fathers’ survivals, that was topped by the surprise at Fingolfin’s pregnancy. When the worst reaction was Curufin tripping down the staircase and needing to have a chair fetched, only for Caranthir to start a fight by asking if Curufin was already trying to steal the attention from the baby, Fingolfin allowed himself to hope that so long as Morgoth did not come (and Maedhros assured him they would see such if he did, allowing for an escape), everything would be alright. 

Fëanor, in his grand tradition of escalating his concerns until they became grand tragedies, did not. 

“I worry that I have become Atar, and that I do not regret such or judge myself enough for it.” Fëanor did not turn from the window, continuing to stare out at his sons’ banner streaming from the walls, and Fingon’s banner set beside them. 

“I do not think the situations are entirely comparable. Neither of us intended such a fate.” Fingolfin sat up, wishing he could fetch Fëanor from the window. But even as he pushed himself up from the bed, Fëanor turned.

“Are they that different? Perhaps I did not intend this pregnancy, but I knew that night with the runes that I loved you in ways I should not,” Fëanor said. 

That had to be the answer to the question Fingolfin had never managed to ask, about what Fëanor had meant about the spell needing more. Seeing how wretched Fëanor looked, he did not ask anything else, even as he wished for answers. “But you would not have acted on such without them. It is not fair to blame yourself, and it is not as though we can change anything now.” 

“No.” Fëanor looked back at the bed. “But what if my sons, or your children, feel as I did as a boy?”

“Then we will deal with such as best as we can. But I do not think such a fate will come, at least from those children we have with us now.” Fingolfin carefully avoided thinking of Turgon, who may well be angered at this, given Fingon’s refusal to speak of his conversations with his younger brother, or Aredhel and Argon, gone behind all contact. “Do you really love me?”

“Yes.” 

It was rather straightforward, Fingolfin thought, for an admission that had taken his brother eleven months to make. “All will be well, in that case.”

“I do not expect you to return such,” Fëanor said, turning back to the window and staring at the banners once more. 

Fingolfin took a breath and a moment to think, and then another moment as he felt their child kick. “It is a little late for us to try and pretend we are not bound together.”

“A child is not enough to keep a relationship together.” Fëanor shook his head, doubtless thinking of the past. 

“Nay, but - come closer, I feel ridiculous having this conversation with you half way across the room.” Fingolfin gestured Fëanor forward. 

Fëanor finally moved closer to the bed after a moment, until finally Fingolfin could grab his hand. “I will not tell you I fully know my own feelings, but I know this: I can barely stand because of how swollen my ankles are, I am nearly as terrified as you are of this, but I would not change this and I feel something for you. Please, Fëanáro, quit trying to convince me to throw you from these rooms or that we should not at least try.”

He knew, even as he spoke, that would not be enough. Instead he used the hold he had on Fëanor’s hand to place it against his bump, where the series of kicks had continued. 

“I think this child will be as active as Tyelko and Findekáno combined,” Fëanor said after a moment. 

“May the Valar finally decide to hear our pleas again, in that case.” Fingolfin grinned as he spoke, remembering those long ago days and also feeling a sense of victory that Fëanor had been distracted from his prior worries. 

Fëanor burst into laughter. “That would be a fate terrifying enough to bring them to pity us, I suppose.” 

“Fingon once broke into Manwë’s palace to visit his eagles while we were visiting Ingwë. I assure you, if anything will bring Manwë’s good will for us, it is a second Fingon.” 

The baby kicked again at that. 

Fëanor laughed once more, and then took a seat on the bed. “While I still do not care for their good will, perhaps they will. But you should take another nap.”

“All you wish me to do is nap,” Fingolfin said, even as he felt Fëanor begin to rearrange the pillows. 

“Please, Nolofinwë?” Grief and fear settled once more in Fëanor’s eyes. 

“Will you join me?” Fingolfin asked instead of simply agreeing. 

“Will you sleep if I do?”

“Yes.”

Fëanor only nodded in response, taking his spot in the bed back. “I cannot-“

Fingolfin turned his head, just barely able to see Fëanor. “I know. You will not lose either of us.” 

“Rest, Nolo,” Fëanor said instead of agreeing. 

It was as though he had settled on that as his new obsession, Fingolfin thought, and like every other thing Fëanor had ever turned his mind to, it was impossible to tell him no. 

It was also a good thing that Fingolfin had decided upon not arguing with Fëanor. Fëanor became more even more worried as the final weeks passed, until finally Fingolfin resorted to calling upon Celegorm and Curufin to convince their father to sleep, and when that failed, calling upon Maglor. If the lullaby Maglor brought with him that evening and claimed to be naught more than a simple tune written for the approaching birth of his new sibling seemed rather powerful when he previewed it for them, neither Maglor nor Fingolfin saw any reason to remark upon such to Fëanor when he finally awoke once more. 

Finally, the day came when Fëanor found himself locked out of the room while inside his youngest child was born. 

“They will not let me in,” Fëanor said for what felt like the three hundredth time in the last hour. 

“They simply wish to keep the room as calm as possible.” Maglor looked up from his spot on the floor, Caranthir and Curufin leaning against him as Maedhros and Fingon claimed the only two chairs and Celegorm and the Ambarussa had made a hammock between two sides of the hallway. 

“I can be calm.” Fëanor continued to pace as he spoke. 

Fingon’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline, as a giggle came from the hammock, followed by a muffled kick. 

Maglor ignored all of that. “Of course, Atar, but there is also the problem of space.”

“They could have used a larger room.” 

Before Maglor could respond, or mentally beg one of his brothers to take their turn dealing with their father, the door opened and the main healer stepped out. 

If his sons and Fingon had expected Fëanor to demand immediate answers, they were disappointed. Instead, Fëanor froze mid step and was perfectly silent. 

“You are free to enter,” she said. “Only two at a time.”

Fëanor still did not move.

Maedhros shoved Fingon to his feet, and then stood, grabbing his father’s arm. “Are they both well?”

“Yes,” she said. “The King wishes to give more details himself.”

Maedhros began to pull his father towards the door as he spoke, shepherding Fingon along as well. “Is there any chance you will permit three in the room briefly, if I leave as soon as I get these two in?” 

They could all tell it was only professionalism keeping her from laughing. “Of course, Prince Maedhros. My best wishes to your entire family.” 

“Thank you,” Maedhros said. “Come, Atar, unless you mean to wait even longer to see your newest child.”

That got Fëanor to walk at least, and behind him Maedhros could hear Maglor throwing a shoe at Celegorm to make him be quiet once more, so at least they were somewhat under control. 

“Hello, Atar,” Fingon said as they stepped through the door. 

“Hello, Fingon,” Fingolfin responded. 

Fëanor froze in the doorway at the sight of Fingolfin propped against the pillows, a baby safely held against his chest. 

“Excuse us, Uncle. I am afraid Atar is overwhelmed.” Maedhros continued to try to drag his father forward. 

“It is fine. I am aware of his fears. But will you not come closer and meet our son, Náro?” Fingolfin smiled as Fëanor stepped forward. 

“How are you? How is he? You look tired, should you not rest?” Fëanor barely paused in between his words. 

Maedhros did not even wait for his father to finish speaking before he ducked back out of the room, as though fleeing something he could no longer stand to listen to.

“I’ll visit you all later, Atar,” Fingon said, following him.

“I love you,” Fingolfin said in return.

“I know - and your sons know you love them as well, Uncle, please don’t fret about that as well.” Fingon ducked out of the room before Fëanor could respond, not quite closing the door before he started laughing.

“I am not fretting,” Fëanor said as the door clicked shut. 

“Of course not.” 

“You did not answer my questions.” Fëanor stepped closer.

“Our son is well. I am tired and the incision is sore, but I am well. I will rest, but first I wished you to join me so you can hold him.”

“Of course.” Fëanor looked around for a chair.

“Sit on the bed by me, unless you fear falling asleep as well. I do not wish either of you to be far.” Fingolfin patted the bed. “They changed the linens already.”

Fëanor nodded, taking a seat and then their son. “Thank you.”

Fingolfin did not ask why, merely brushing a hand against his half-brother’s. Both of them were well aware of Fëanor’s fears, and the causes of them, and why he would be thankful. 

Later that night, they both were ready to sleep while they could. 

"Do you regret leaving the Silmarils behind?" Fingolfin asked, as their infant slept in the crib by the bed. 

They had not spoken of the three jewels since they had escaped. 

Fëanor turned from where he had been looking out the window. "Nay. He cannot break them, and I shall recover them one day." 

Fingolfin considered asking more questions. If Fëanor would wish this son to swear the oath as well. If he ever wondered what their father would think of all of this. If he wished the crown back for himself, and what they would do about it now, even as Fingon continued to rule in Fingolfin’s name. 

In the end, he relaxed back into the pillows. "And I shall follow you, if you will only let me."

Fëanor nodded. "One day. For now, you should rest and recover your strength."

“I will,” he promised. He must recover, he thought, if only to save Fëanor from his worst ideas. “Come to bed with me?”

“Nolofinwë?” Fëanor looked at him, startled. 

“We have a child together, and have been sharing a bed for most of the last year. You said you loved me, and I love you as well. We cannot make anything worse by continuing our affair now,” Fingolfin said. 

As grand declarations of love went, it was not one of the greatest in the history of Arda. But Fëanor did nod and crawl into bed, wrapping his arms carefully around his half-brother to avoid the healing cut and kissing his hair before drifting to sleep. 

One last thought entered Fingolfin's mind as he neared sleep.

They had never discovered if the potion was only good for the once. 

As Fëanor's arms clasped tighter around him as he slept, Fingolfin decided that was a question that would perhaps be answered soon enough, anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> Continued warnings: 
> 
> Dubious consent & forced pregnancy: Fingolfin and Fëanor, in the end, are both happy in this relationship and with their child. However, it does begin with Sauron using a potion to allow Fingolfin to become pregnant (without disclosing what the potion is for) and then using an enchantment to cause them to have sex.
> 
> Implied/referenced rape: Fëanor tries to argue that if he had not taken Fingolfin, everything would have been fine. Fingolfin fears it would not have been, and there is a brief discussion of such.


End file.
